Love Kills
by Audrie the Clever Girl
Summary: Hermione is going to kill Tom Riddle.
1. Love Potion No. 9

_I'm on the cusp of really losing it here. There is no one to talk to. I can't leave this dingy apartment for more than necessities. The books are out of date by half a century! I'm going to start pulling out my hair if things don't fall into place. The thing I'm about to do, it makes my skin clammy. It seems like a childish plan, and I've talked myself out of it nearly a million times. Still...love is the most destructive power in the world isn't it?_

Hermione snapped shut the slim journal she had been keeping notes in for the last few months. It was good to write down her feelings, she had decided. There was no one she could safely talk to, and her plan to murder the most well guarded Dark Lord of modern history was starting to gnaw at her.

If Harry or Ron had been with her she wouldn't be such a neurotic mess. She had been two months completely unchecked in her scheming. It had been so long since she had been without someone to pull her from her own mind, and as the days drew closer to the initiation of her plan she was more manic than ever. Her hair looked like she stuck a fork in the light socket.

It was a shake of a plan, but she had never been good at planning murder. Sure people got hurt sometimes for the sake of her friends or the greater good, but out right killing was the line that was supposed to set them apart from the others. She was one of the good guys, and good guys faced all odds while keeping their morals intact while working toward the defeat of evil.

Real life was turning out to be much different.

Pacing the room helped her think, and there was a path in the carpet showing her usual circuit. She paced as she ticked off how the next day would have to go in order for her to succeed. There were so many unknown variables, and the actual acts she would need to complete would be detestable. Her teeth set to grinding.

To get anywhere near close enough to Lord Voldemort to kill him, she was going to have to do some terrible things. A glance over her shoulder at the grimy furniture piled high with spell crafting and potion materials, as well as the small desk with a bubbling cauldron, made her ill. She was about to go rouge.

She hoped that she could sleep, but the smell of the potion was strong. Fresh parchment. Mown grass. Ron's hair. Her heart was sick with longing for home, for him. The betrayal that was about to taint her, she was sure it would never wash from the constructs of her character and soul.

Love potions were worse than poison by her estimation, but effective. Both could be deadly.

She threw her hands up into her hair and let out a muffled scream.

Killing him was going to kill her. She just knew it.


	2. No Attempt

It's true that all successful dictators have some amount of charm, and Hermione knew that Tom Riddle was no exception to this. Still, she hadn't expected herself to be at all suspetable to it. Frustration mounted in her as she found herself being thoroughly charmed over a cup of tea.

The tea had been his idea, in a well lit parlor on the south side of town. It was a quaint shop that was ran by a motherly old woman, but there was no doubt that she was a loyalist to the snake across the table. It would have been foolish to think Lord Voldemort would have a private meeting in an unsecured location. It was well know that, though he was evil, Tom ranked as one of the most clever wizards to grace the UK in the last century. It would make drugging his drink all the more difficult.

The wit is what charmed her, she knew. Very few times had she felt that she was evenly matched in a conversation of wits. Her boys did not have it in them to chanllenge her, but their trio was stronger for their differences. Ron was a wiz at strategy. Harry had talent and courage for the whole of Gryffindor House.

"See, I don't get calls like this very often. You're a strange one," his voice was mistrusting and nearly sinister.

"Not at all more strange than some of your well known advisors."

That's what Voldemort called his Knights publicly. There were few people that called them death eaters as of yet. Having only been out of school for four years, Tom hadn't gone to the public with his scheme of world donation. That wouldn't be for another decade. There was something charged in the air of that time though, as if there was a storm brewing.

"True, but I know them. I have known them. You come out of no where and expect this," he tossed a dossier on the table, rattling their cups, "to make me trust you? Who are you really? Some dolt Albus Dumbledor has sent to keep and eye on me? I knew the old man had his follies, but to send you was down right foolish."

Tom let out a deep sigh.

"Why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

Hermione's heart thundered in her chest, and she felt the blood rush to her face.

"Because...you're right. Dumbledor sent me, and he would know you murdered me. There would be enough in his word to send you away." No shake tainted her voice to betray her.

Voldemort scoffed in a very lordly way, with a condescending scowl marring his handsome features.

What an absolute prat. The enchanting manner he had adopted was so blatantly false by this point and spoiled any surprise esteem she had begrudgingly granted him.

"Fine, come work for me. You're more than qualified if have of this," Tom gesture to the documents on the table, "is true. You can play at your little spy game, but if you think you would find anything incriminating on me to report to Dumbledor...prepare to be disappointed."

She was...in?

His secrets were nothing to her, but the proximity would give her a chance to dose him. The chance had fled as he stood without ever touching his cup and left with a curt nod.

Shit.


End file.
